Aubade with Light In My Teeth
Daybreak. Broken fever.
Drip of the eggshell sink. Light
in my teeth. Quavering smoke-brain,
mute steps. Panel of bright fronds,
pink orbs presses window panes.
Last night, the mimosa tree fell.
I did not hear it. How not to gorge.
How not to fear. I’m not afraid
he said before he died. Almost
last words. I did not understand
the way he was brought down
minus any thunder. How to respire.
How to describe a silk tree’s last
gasps. How to shrine the afterwards,
unquiet altar of branches traced
with morning. Cool brow.
Bark-husk. Honey. Resin.
12 questions
after Bhanu Kapil
On a mountain trail at the ocean we visit an alder with split trunks intertwined, call it ours.
*
Every day, I feed crows and hummingbirds. A seagull perches on my neighbor’s roof, watching hungrily. 200 miles from home. 144 hours as the bird flies.
*
In this metaphor I’m all three variations of birds.
*
After my lover dies, I visit the tree. I offer feathers, skin, hair, shells.
*
A pale whelk on the sand: apex, suture, whorl, rib, striations, outer lip, aperture, spire.
*
Memory is a heavy hooked beak.
*
I walk fully clothed into the ocean. Seagulls squat on wet sand, mired with rain. For one brief moment, I remember nothing.
*
Despite expectations and desire, there is nothing silent beneath a wave.
*
After he dies, I pull out my hair. It takes many days to break my teeth. Feed them to the seagulls. Throw each arm into the sea. These knees. My cleaved feet. Bury them under marram grass until all that remains is a useless engorged heart.
*
Rain all night. Fog shore. No partition between wave and sky.
*
A balcony with a view of basalt sea stack. He is too sick to leave the bed. I eat quietly to not wake him. I’ve never tasted anything so perfectly sweet.
*
Whenever I consume a huckleberry.
Lisa Marie Oliver is the author of "Birthroot" (Glass Lyre Press). Recent poems have appeared in Harbor Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Rust and Moth, and elsewhere. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her son. For more: lisamarieoliver.com